


entrance waves

by caravanslost



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-15
Updated: 2015-03-29
Packaged: 2018-03-13 00:45:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3361490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caravanslost/pseuds/caravanslost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lewy can read minds. So can Jerome. At first it's a problem, and then it isn't. Then it becomes a problem again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I can tell you shake from the insides

**Author's Note:**

  * For [apollothyme](https://archiveofourown.org/users/apollothyme/gifts).



> 1\. For [gi](http://archiveofourown.org/users/thesilverwitch), who offered [this poem](http://thesilverwitch.livejournal.com/33981.html?thread=981181#t981181) as a prompt. I strongly recommend you read it for context <3
> 
> 2\. The word-count exploded. Chapters will be necessary. I know where I'm going to with it though, so it should be done by the end of February!

Lewy could read minds. He never asked for the ability, didn’t know where it had come from, and didn’t know who to ask to take it back. He made peace with using it instead.

He tried not to read people’s minds immediately. He tried to give them the grace of a few weeks or months – at least – before he looked. His patience didn’t falter, mostly.

Lewy kidded himself that he waited out of a sense of morality, but he knew that it was because he could learn interesting things from the delay.  He would give people a chance to leave an impression on him, allow himself to perceive them as they wanted to be perceived. Then he would read their minds, compare who they were with who they tried to be, and reach his own conclusions. Sometimes he was pleasantly surprised by the difference between the two, or the lack of it. Most of the time, he wasn’t.

People often opened up to him anyway, quickly and with ease, even though he never asked them to do so.

Lewy had been an awkward child once, but he had eventually mastered the art of the first approach – the uninhibited hello, the unassuming smile, the ability to start a conversation with anyone about anything and to keep it going, no matter how stiff the other person might be. He had a knack for remembering things too, recalling an aside that someone had mentioned to him a dozen conversations ago. He would offer it back to them later and slowly reel them in with it, and they would open up to him because they thought he was genuine, and thoughtful.

His grandmother – who didn’t know what he was capable of doing – said that Lewy was lucky, that people trusted him because of his eyes and his smile. Lewy disagreed. He always figured that people trusted him because they wanted someone to trust. He simply made himself available.

But he knew that it wasn’t right, what he could do.

Lewy told himself that it wasn’t a power but merely an _ability_. He was just a neutral bystander with a slightly better view of the game than most, and he told himself that it was all okay as long as he just _looked_ , and nothing else.

He told himself all these things and for the most part, he believed them. It was only sometimes, when he read the mind of someone close to him or stumbled along something particularly personal, that he saw the cracks in his own arguments. Those occasions left a bitter taste in his mouth, a guilt that he knew well, that he had lived with for as long as he had lived with his ability. He tolerated guilt like a chain around his neck, burdensome but familiar, the weight of it now as much a part of him as anything else.

* * *

They were used to changing faces at Dortmund, but knowing that didn’t make him feel any better.

When he left, he spent as much time in the minds of his team-mates as he did in his own. He did it as penance because everyone was gracious about his decision, even though they didn’t truly feel that way, and he knew it. So he read their minds and subjected himself to every thought that they had kindly spared him – Kloppo’s resigned disappointment, and Kevin’s sadness, and the particular acid of Marco’s fury. Then he accepted their congratulations and their goodbyes, knowing that they were offered with only half a heart.

But during his first few weeks in Munich, Lewy let his new team-mates keep their thoughts to themselves. He tried to get to know them the honest, old-fashioned way at first.

Mario had been particularly pleased to see him, and Lewy didn’t have to read his mind to know it. Philipp stuck close to him too, like a good captain should do. Most of the others eventually approached him to introduce themselves in their own time, in their own way. With a few others, Lewy had to make the first approach. He didn’t mind.

But then there was Jerome, and Lewy wasn’t quite sure what to make of him.

At first, Lewy thought to himself that Jerome was polite enough, if a little distant. He stuck close to his little circle of Fips and Basti and Arjen and put space between himself and everyone else, but no one seemed to mind. Lewy figured that maybe this was how he was, that it was something to which they had all grown accustomed.

But after a while, Lewy began thinking that Jerome wasn’t just distant, but _cold_ , and towards him in particular. He kept his feelings to himself because no looks had been given and no words had been exchanged between them, but he couldn’t shake off the feeling.

It wasn’t for lack of effort on Lewy’s part. He tried breaking through to Jerome like he did the others. Lewy waited for him to approach, and when he didn’t, he tried striking up the conversations himself. But if they were alone, Jerome said as little as needed to be said to keep up the image of a conversation. And when they were in a group, Lewy got the impression that Jerome was somehow talking to everyone else except him.

It bothered Lewy, this business. He waited for Jerome to cool down, for his hostility to mellow into indifference, but it didn’t.

Lewy began thinking that maybe, it was time to take to look.

* * *

An opportunity finally presented itself a month later, on a Thursday afternoon. Lewy took it.

Pep had sent the team to the lockers after a hard day of work, and Jerome and Lewy were the last two still on the pitch. Jerome collected the cones they had been using and and Lewy lugged around a mesh bag, picking up balls, but they worked slowly. Both of them were spent and their muscles protested with every step.

They worked in awkward silence, Jerome with his back to Lewy. Lewy thought for a moment about saying something small, like asking about Jerome’s plans for the weekend, but then he decided against it. Small-talk had failed him a hundred times before. Why have faith in the hundred and first? Lewy decided to read Jerome’s mind instead.

He took a moment to look around them, to make sure that no one else was on the pitch or in the stands. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway, even if someone was, but the habit of checking had started when Lewy was a kid. He had never been able to shake it off. It was a little easier to do without anyone watching. Sometimes the quiet helped him concentrate. 

Lewy focused Jerome in both his line of vision and in his mind’s eye. He took a deep breath, stilled the world around him, and he read.

As he did, pain immediately seared through his skull.

It left him reeling, a white light from nowhere blinding him as though he was staring at the sun. The pain coiled around his skull and _squeezed_ , and Lewy gasped out as it almost doubled him over to the ground. The mesh net slipped from his hands as he struggled to remain upright, and a high ringing noise sounded harshly in his ear. The pitch spun around him. He couldn’t breathe.

Lewy somehow thought to pull his mind away from Jerome’s, and when he did, it was like pulling a cord on the pain. He remained where he stood, and waited. It receded almost as quickly as it had come.

In the middle of the grass, there was nothing Lewy could hold onto for balance. He wanted to give in to gravity, to lie down, to feel solid earth underneath him. Lewy rested his hands on his knees instead, tried to keep himself steady, but he barely managed. His legs were already exhausted as they were, and they shook heavily as they bore the added weight of his frame. Nausea rose in his chest and lingered at the back of his throat. Dizzied, he tried to breathe and keep it at bay.

Eventually, his vision returned. It took a little while longer for the ringing in his ear to dull to a mild hum. And then, only when he looked up, did he realize with a jolt that Jerome was in the same state.

Jerome was on his knees, hunched to the earth and breathing heavily. One hand was flat on the ground to steady himself and the other vigorously rubbed at his temple, as though he could iron out the pain. His eyes were clenched shut and Lewy could make out a slight tremor in his body as he struggled to regain his balance.

Nothing happened for a few long moments. Jerome nursed his pain and Lewy stared at him, bewildered. He had been reading for a lifetime. Nothing remotely close to this had ever happened before.

Lewy stood up straight with some difficulty, nausea still lurking at the back of his throat.

“Jerome?”

A few feet away, Jerome finally gathered enough strength to stand up. He turned around slowly, like the very act of moving was hard, but his eyes were bright with anger when they finally met Lewy’s.

“What the _fuck_ is wrong with you?” Jerome demanded.

And just like that, Lewy’s concern became caution.

They eyed each other for a little while.

Lewy hoped that the question was rhetorical because he didn’t know how to answer. In the end, he didn’t have to. After a final scathing look in Lewy’s direction, Jerome stormed off.

\--

After that, Lewy’s nights became a repetitive cycle of too much thought and too little sleep. He never slept much anyway, but even the little slumber he managed became worse. Fragments of the incident spliced themselves into his dreams, and it bothered him to the point where he actively avoided bed. When he finally got there, sleep took its merry time.

Sometimes, he would haul himself out of bed at two or three, looking for something to do that wasn’t tossing and turning his sheets into a mess. He would make a cup of tea and nurse the hot mug in the kitchen, thinking.

He thought about the fact that he hadn’t been able to read a single one of Jerome’s thoughts. He had tried, and then the pain had come, and he just _couldn’t_. He hadn’t even felt like he was properly in Jerome’s mind. All he could remember was the peculiar feeling of a barrier, like a force was repelling him. It was as though he had tried to scale a wall that was actively trying to throw him off.

That had never happened before

He thought about the white, searing pain too – that fact that it had happened at all, which baffled him, but that it had affected Jerome as well, which baffled him even more. In a lifetime’s worth of reading, Lewy had never once disturbed the minds he entered. He likened what he could do to a perfect crime; he would read without leaving a trace or memory of his presence behind, and the mind on which he had intruded would be none the wiser, like he hadn’t touched it. In a way, he hadn’t.

But what troubled him more than anything – what really kept him up at night – was the fact that Jerome had blamed _him_ for whatever had happened, whatever it was. Even though Lewy hadn’t touched him, even though he had been standing metres away, even though Lewy’s first reaction had been to express concern for his welfare.

Like he had sensed the string between his pain and Lewy’s.

 _As though he had known that_ –-

 _No_.

That ridiculous thought – that Jerome _knew_ – came to Lewy as well. It came often and it came unbidden. But there was no way – _no way_ – that Jerome could have known, so Lewy dismissed it. It came back to him and he dismissed it again, but it returned, and again, till getting rid of it was no longer easy to do. Till he began to see strange things in the theory. Merits.

It didn’t help that Jerome fed Lewy’s suspicion, if inadvertently.

Before the incident, Lewy had thought Jerome was hostile. Lewy now learned that he hadn’t seen a thing. Jerome wore his anger like full-body armour for Lewy to see, and for everyone else to see as well. The tension between them was enough for Philipp and Basti to separately pull Lewy aside and ask if something had happened. He hadn’t known what to tell them.

Lewy avoided Jerome’s eye but Jerome found ways to meet it anyway, and then he would hold Lewy’s gaze until Lewy, cowed, looked away first. Lewy wasn’t sure why he put up with it. Maybe he felt bad for trying to read Jerome’s mind, and this was his way of making amends. Maybe he was trying to find an answer in Jerome’s gaze. He wasn’t sure.

But the fact that Jerome continued to rage against him, _still_ , weeks after the incident had occurred, left Lewy with the distinct impression that something more was going on. The theory he had dismissed as ridiculous began to seem strangely sensible. He decided, in his kitchen at 2 am on a Tuesday night, that he would somehow have to test it.

And maybe it was a bad idea, but he wasn’t good with remaining in the dark. A lifetime of helping himself to people’s thoughts had spoiled him with access, with knowledge, with having all the information he wanted at the fire of a neuron.

He couldn’t read Jerome’s mind again, of course. Whatever had happened on that pitch between them, that particular option was off the table and Lewy knew it.

Lewy decided that he would just have to _ask_ , even if Jerome wouldn’t speak to him, and whether Jerome had an answer for him or not.

* * *

 

Making the decision to speak to Jerome was hard, but the decision on how to actually do it was easy. He would have to corner him into it.

He decided to do it after training one day because Jerome was always the last to get to the lockers, and the last to leave. It was a fact of life at Bayern that Lewy had come to learn, like Pep’s aggressive affection or Basti’s practical jokes. Often, Jerome took so long that by the time he emerged from the showers, most people would have gone home. Lewy figured that this was a good thing for what he needed to do. No one else needed to be around for this conversation.

He picked a nondescript Tuesday afternoon after training. Everyone else talked, laughed, showered, got changed, and Lewy loitered. He started twenty different conversations with as many people as he could, and he delayed and delayed and delayed.

After almost everyone was done, Jerome finally turned up after a chat with Pep and went straight into the showers.  On his way, his eyes scanned the room and paused icily on Lewy for a few moments before looking away. Lewy’s pulse quickened. He tried to ignore it. Philipp caught them at it too, but he ignored that as well. 

Lewy loitered some more, packing things slowly into his training bag. Till Basti was the only other person in the room with him. He eventually gave Lewy a clap on the back and and left.

Lewy stayed back on his own, with nothing but his thoughts and the distant sound of Jerome’s running shower for company. He leaned back against the thin wooden barrier that separated his compartment from Mario’s, feet tapping out an irregular rhythm on the cold grey floor, and he waited.

Lewy waited until finally, the sound of running water stopped.

As soon as it did, he was struck with cold feet.  It occurred to him that the locker room, after a day of heavy training, maybe wasn’t the subtlest way to have this conversation. He wondered what the right way would have been. Perhaps there was  _no_  right way. The conversation needed to be had, sooner rather than later, and the planets would have to align at their leisure. 

It was too late now, anyway. He heard the approach of wet footsteps. 

Jerome eventually emerged from the showers with a red towel folded neatly around his waist. It was balanced low, where his waist dipped into the sharp V of his hips, and when he noticed Lewy, he paused. He eyed him for a moment, expression unreadable, and then he looked away. Jerome had a particular gift for dismissive looks, for seeing you without acknowledging you. Lewy knew those looks well. He had been on the receiving end of them for weeks, and should have been used to them by now. A twinge of irritation flared through him anyway.

Jerome proceeded to his compartment as though nothing was wrong, as though Lewy wasn’t even there. He began drying himself off and getting changed. Lewy looked away and waited, till he had at least put his pants on, before opening the conversation. 

“Jerome.”

As Lewy had expected, there was no response.

“We need to talk.” He continued, voice firm.

And Lewy didn’t have to read Jerome’s mind to notice how his body flared immediately at his insistence, how the line between his shoulders tensed, how the muscles in his back tightened. Jerome put on his shirt and began buttoning it up, and Lewy waited.

Eventually, Jerome delivered a response in a tone so forcefully calm that it sent a small chill down Lewy’s spine.

“I have absolutely nothing to say to you.” 

Lewy asked the next question anyway. 

“We need to talk about the other day, on the pitch.”

Jerome sat down on the bench-seat in front of his compartment, and began putting on his socks. 

“Come on, say something. What happened out there?” 

Jerome slipped his feet into a pair of electric blue sneakers that were bold, even by his own standards. He leaned forward to lace them up. He was silent all the way.

But by now, Lewy was reading things into his silence. The longer that Jerome maintained it, the more sure Lewy felt that it existed for a reason, and probably a good one. 

He thought to himself, with a shaky breath,  _fine_. _Tell him_.

It struck him, before he spoke, that he had never said anything out loud about what he could do before. He had kept his ability to himself, nurturing it on his own. The thought of finally sharing it, of what he could do – with  _Jerome_ , of all people – didn’t sit comfortably in his stomach, but the thought of not figuring out what Jerome knew somehow felt worse.

But then, Jerome spoke before he did.

“I knew what you were trying to do.” He said shortly.

“What?" 

“Out there, on the pitch. I knew what you were trying to do.”

Lewy waited for him to continue, but Jerome lapsed back into silence instead. He couldn’t tell whether Jerome was thinking about what to say next, or whether it was now his turn to speak. 

“What did you think I was trying to do?” He asked cautiously.

Jerome began folding his training gear and packing it away in his bag.  He moved quietly, methodically, no element of his face betraying a single emotion or thought. The silence lasted an age. 

“You were trying to read my mind.” Jerome said finally.

All the air rushed out of Lewy’s lungs.He was glad he was sitting down.

“So why couldn’t I?” He eventually asked.

“Because I stopped you.”

“How?”

Another long pause, and now – more than any other time in his entire life – Lewy would have killed just to read the mind in front of him.

“I can do it too.”

Lewy stopped breathing altogether. 

He stared at Jerome, cold and numb, like his blood had frozen in his veins.He tried to wrap his mind around what he had just heard, and couldn’t.

But before he could say anything – before he could acknowledge this grenade that Jerome had casually detonated between them – Jerome slung his bag over his back, stood up, and fixed him with a frosted look.                                          

“There. You have your answer. We’re never speaking about this again.” He spat. “And let me tell you something else.”

“What?”

“If you ever try to read my mind again, I’m going to break your ankles with the studs of my boots.”

He paused for a moment after that, allowing his words to sink in, but he didn’t wait for an answer. He walked out of the room instead, the threat suspended in the air behind him.

Lewy watched him leave, speechless. He stayed seated for a long while afterwards, waiting for his heart to slow down because _shit_ , he thought to himself.  _He can do it too_. 

 _Jerome can do it too_.

Eventually, a cleaner came in and found Lewy still there. The double-take and look of genuine alarm she gave him were enough to send him home. He left his car at the stadium and walked back to his apartment instead, knowing better than to trust himself to drive.

Lewy went to bed that night thinking about the fact that his secret was no longer a secret. And Jerome, for all his anger and his ice and his low, calm threats, had shared a secret of his own. Lewy fell asleep thinking that they would have to talk about it again at some point.

They would _have_ to.

Because -- well -- how could they not?


	2. i don't mind if you don't mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Apologies are made, bridges are built.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, hello!
> 
> 1\. As usual, this ended up exploding. As a result, the fic will now be three chapters long. [One of these days, I will start an intended 3,000 word one-shot and keep it at that length, but that day is not today.]
> 
> 2\. I've made some edits to the first chapter. Nothing substantive by any means, and nothing that affects the story, but it reads a little more smoothly now.
> 
> Anyway, happy reading!

They weren’t on speaking terms, but Lewy still wasted hours thinking about the right thing to say to say to Jerome. The answer eventually came to him one afternoon, in the middle of a conversation with someone else about something completely different.

In the course of comforting a friend about a bad breakup, Lewy spent fifteen minutes trying to convince the guy that the right thing to do was just to swallow his pride and apologize. Lewy failed to talk sense into his friend by the time they hung up, but he convinced himself.

He had to apologize to Jerome and it was as easy – and as unbearably difficult – as that. The thought made his stomach twist uneasily, and Lewy wasn’t even sure that an apology would work. But as was apparently the case with anything involving him and Jerome, he stood to lose nothing.

And then, of course, came the question of when to do it. Jerome had become even pricklier in his company since their last encounter in the lockers, to the extent that Lewy began taking active steps to avoid him. Which made life difficult, because the team was only so big, and he could only get so far away. It didn’t help that Jerome seemed to actively seek out his gaze, to make a point of being cold around him in front of others, to make things as difficult as possible in little ways. Lewy would have admired his creativity if it wasn’t getting in the way of his entire professional life.

In the end, Lewy’s decision was made for him by a twist of chance, timing, and Philipp’s indefatigable need to be in control of absolutely everything.  

One bleary Monday night, Philipp messaged him with instructions to be at the spare office on the ground floor at 8 the following morning, instead of at training at 9 as usual. The instructions didn’t come with an explanation, and when Lewy messaged back to ask for one, he didn’t receive a reply. He guessed that the silence was intentional. Philipp usually monitored his phone with a vulture’s dedication.

The next morning, Lewy arrived at the Allianz with bleary eyes and barely enough energy to drive. He rubbed his eyes raw from his car to the spare office, and wondered what in god’s name was so important that Philipp couldn’t wait till after practice.

Things fell into place rather quickly when he arrived at the spare office to find Philipp, and with him, Jerome, who looked like he would sooner be shipped off to war.

There was a large desk against the furthest wall of the room, and Jerome was slouched in one of the chairs in front it. His back was to the door, and therefore to Lewy, but the tension in his shoulders was unambiguous. He seethed and looked for all the world like an annoyed schoolchild that had been summoned to the principal’s office against his will.

And for his part, Philipp looked like a harassed headmaster too, with folded arms and stiff posture. His expression was locked in a deep scowl, his lips compressed so thinly that they were almost white.

Lewy eyed them both cautiously and closed the door behind him. It was quiet in the office and uncomfortably so, as though they had exchanged words before he had arrived, and sharp ones. The air felt heavy with the fallout of an abrupt, unresolved conversation.

He quickly peered into Philipp’s mind [ _and this asshole is late, and now I have to manage them both, for fuck’s sake_ ] and confirmed his suspicions.

“Jesus fucking Christ.” Jerome exclaimed angrily, his tone acid.

Lewy and Philipp looked at him, taken aback by the outburst.

“What’s going on?” Lewy asked, bypassing the good mornings. The mood in the room didn’t seem receptive to pleasantries.

Philipp turned to look at him. “Be quiet. Sit down.”

There was a second empty seat to the left of Jerome, and Lewy figured that it was waiting for him. He sat down as he was told to do, because stature notwithstanding, Philipp could be terrifying when he wanted to be. And right now he wanted to be.

He glanced over at Jerome as he sat down. Jerome looked like he had swallowed a particularly large slice of lemon, and the sum of his attention was focused on the corner of the desk in front of him. His feet tapped a quick, irritable rhythm on the floor.

Lewy didn’t want to be here, but it was clear that Jerome wanted to be here even less.

Philipp’s eyes moved from one to the other, but he didn’t speak immediately. He kept them in silence for an uncomfortably long time, and made the extent of his displeasure clear to them both. 

“I’m going to keep this brief.” He began, tone sharp. “I don’t know what the fuck is going on beween you, but in case you think you’re quietly getting away with it, I’m here to inform you that you’re not. Your fighting hasn’t escaped a single person’s attention. Not mine, not the team’s, not Pep’s. Do you understand what I’m saying to you?”

“So Pep asked you to summon us?” Jerome asked, although his delivery suggested that he didn’t care either way.

“No. He didn’t. I called you here myself. And count your blessings that you’re getting this from me instead of him.”

Lewy cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Philipp, honestly, there’s no need -- "

“There is _every_ need.” Philipp interrupted harshly. “There is every need to have this conversation because no one can explain to me why the fuck you two skulk around each other looking homicidal.”

“We still play fine together.” Jerome pointed out coolly. “And if it’s not getting in the way of our game, I don’t see how it’s any of your business because  -- ”

“Shut up.” Philipp cut him off. ”I’ve decided that it is my business. You two can’t even muster the decency to shelve your differences at training, so it’s my business. You make it uncomfortable for people to be around you both at the same time, so it’s my business. It’s unprofessional, and more importantly, it’s pissing me off.”

He looked from one to the other for a reaction, but received radio silence instead. Jerome continued to focus on the corner of the desk like it held some sort of answer for him. Lewy looked at the floor, at his hands, at the calendar from 2013 that was still on the wall – anywhere that wasn’t back at Philipp.  

Philipp’s lips thinned further. “Look, if this is some hangover from a spat you two had when Lewy was at Dortmund -- "

But he was cut short. Jerome looked up and gave a hollow, humourless laugh. “Really? That’s what you think this is about?”

“Then _tell me_ what it’s about.” And when the room plunged back into silence at his request, he said, “If either of you is under the impression that you’re leaving this room before this thing – _whatever_ it is – is resolved, you’re not.”

“Then I hope you’re prepared to stand for a very long time.” Jerome snapped.

Philipp’s eyes widened, and Lewy decided to intervene before Jerome lost any of his limbs.

“Okay. Philipp. _Fine_. There’s no point denying that something’s going on, okay? But we’re not going to discuss it in front of you.”

“Perfect.” Philipp retorted. “What am I supposed to do with that?”

“Nothing, except maybe leave us alone to talk.”

Jerome snapped his neck to look at Lewy, and Lewy didn’t dare look back at him. He could already imagine the expression that was waiting for him anyway. He had been on the receiving end of it more times than he cared to count in the last few months, but even then, it wasn’t as bad as the look he was getting from Philipp.  

Philipp frowned at the suggestion, and Lewy could practically see the scales balancing behind his furrowed brows.

“You want me to leave you alone to talk.”

“Yes.”      

“Even though I have no faith that you two will actually talk to each other.”

Lewy let out an exasperated sigh. “Yes. Look, this isn’t something you can mediate, okay? Can you just – give us five minutes alone? Please?”

Philipp didn’t look happy with the idea, but he conceded.

“Fine. Five minutes, but I’m not going anywhere far away. I’ll be in the office across the hall, and I swear to god that if I hear the door to this room open and shut before -- "

“It won’t.” Lewy assured him.

Philipp gave them each one final, acrid parting glance, and left the room, making sure to close the door behind him. When it clicked shut, Jerome folded his arms and slouched even further in his chair. Lewy waited for a few unpleasant moments, his stomach twisting like it used to do before exams, the apology balanced on the tip of his tongue.

“I still don’t have a single thing to say to you.” Jerome declared first, and coldly, his eyes still on the corner of the desk. 

Lewy’s temper flared momentarily at that. “Good.” He replied sharply. “Then maybe you can shut up and listen.”

Jerome looked to him with surprise, taken aback by the force of the retort.

They lapsed into quiet again, and in Philipp’s absence, the silence now seemed heavier than it had been before. It gave Lewy a few moments to think, and to realize that prefacing an apology by telling someone to shut up wasn’t his finest moment. He might as well have wrapped and gifted his apology in sandpaper.

“Look, I’m sorry.” He said eventually. He waited for a few seconds for a response, and when he didn’t receive one, he continued. “I’m sorry for snapping, and I’m sorry for what I did to you that day on the pitch, okay? I fucked up. I shouldn’t have tried to read your mind. I’m sorry.”

For the second time that morning, the room echoed unpleasantly with the sound of Jerome’s brief, humourless laugh.

“A fuck up? That’s how you see what you can do? You go into the most intimate space a person can have – a person’s mind, without their permission – and you think it’s just _a fuck up_? ”

Uncomfortable warmth spread across Lewy’s chest as his apology crashed right out of the gate. He wasn’t sure whether Jerome’s question was meant to be rhetorical or not, but he didn’t risk answering it anyway. Lewy found himself thinking that even their earlier silence, heavy though it had been, was preferable to this.

“You wanna know my problem with you, Robert?” Jerome continued sharply. “You’ve got this sense of entitlement because of what you can do, but you have exactly zero control. Do you realize how much time you spend in other people’s minds each day? Do you have any idea how often you’re at it?”

“I don’t do it that often.” Lewy insisted resentfully, even though he was lying through his teeth and knew it well. “You don’t even know – “

“But I do,” Jerome interrupted, cutting him off roughly. “That’s the point. I feel it. Every time you help yourself to someone’s thoughts, I feel it. When Pep’s talking or the ref’s thinking or the team’s practicing and you read their minds, I feel it.”

Lewy froze.

“What do you mean,” he asked slowly, “when you say that you feel it?”

Jerome’s voice dropped, even though they were alone, even though there was no chance of Philipp overhearing them through two doors. Lewy’s heart began to thump in a very unpleasant sort of way.

“When you read someone’s mind, it’s not like -- there’s no closed line between your mind and theirs. It’s like when you throw a stone in water and it creates ripples. So when you read, I can just –- I can tell exactly what the fuck you’re doing.”

Lewy exhaled slowly.

“Oh.”

“And you do it more often than you don’t.” Jerome continued. “You have since you got here.”

And suddenly, the meaning of every look Jerome had given him, every harsh word and every harsh silence they had exchanged – all of it finally made sense.  Lewy sat numb in his seat.

“So. Wait.” He finally managed. “Are you saying that - every time – “

“Every single time,” Jerome finished for him. ”Like just then, when you did it to Philipp as soon as you walked into the room. I knew.”

A sickly feeling crept up Lewy’s throat, and tightened around it.

“So how come I haven’t felt those ripples around you?” He asked.

“Because I don’t do it. Ever.”

“Not even sometimes?”

“ _Never_. On principle.”

The implication being, of course, that Lewy had none. Dumbly, and because he couldn’t think of anything else to say, Lewy decided to reoffer his apology even though at this point, it felt like a band aid on a cracked wall.

“I’m sorry.” Lewy said.

Jerome snorted derisively. “No, you’re not. You’re only sorry someone caught you.”

“That too.” Lewy admitted, because it was true and because Jerome would probably see right through any attempt at denial. “But I’m still sorry. Honestly.”

“That means absolutely nothing to me. Not till you do something about it.” He declared, shifting in his seat. “Are we done?”

“I guess.”

Without another word, Jerome got up and left and shut the door behind him. Lewy heard sounds from the office across the hall and footsteps approaching from the corridor. Then Philipp came in, and Lewy stayed back in his chair.

“I heard the door go – where’s Jerome?”

“He left.”

“Well? Are you two on civil terms again?”

“We weren’t on civil terms to begin with.”

“ _Robert_ \--“

Lewy raised a hand to stop him. “Calm down. We talked.”

“But you didn’t sort it out.” Philipp said flatly.

“No. I don’t know. We’ll have to see.”

* * *

After their conversation, Lewy began studying his habits. It took him only the rest of the day to realize that Jerome was right.

When Lewy left the spare office that morning, he resolved not to read in front of Jerome ever again. He then spent the rest of the day fighting an uphill battle to keep that resolution. He arrived at the lockers to get changed into his training gear, said hi to Thomas and Holger, and caught himself in Holger’s mind before he even realized he was doing it. He stopped immediately and glanced over at Jerome, whose back was to him as he pulled on his training gear. He didn’t react, even though he must have noticed.

Lewy found that the behaviour plagued him after work as well. He filled up his car with petrol that night and found himself in the mind of the forecourt attendant. At the supermarket, he caught himself idly reading the minds of people wandering down the same aisle as him. It hit him then that around other people, reading minds was seemingly all he did.

He got home that night, heated up last night’s leftovers for dinner, and thought about the cycle of idle reading and sudden awareness in which he had passed his day. He thought about how unsettlingly quiet it had been in his mind each time that he’d forced himself to stop, and how he wasn’t really used to silence unless he was alone at home.

The next day was more of the same struggle. Pep wasn’t happy with his shooting at training, and even though he didn’t say anything, Lewy could just _tell_. He stopped for a water break and only just managed to catch himself in that idle state before he focused on Pep and slipped. Lewy closed his eyes, gulped down maybe half the bottle, and tried to calm himself down. When he eventually looked up, he caught Jerome observing him like a hawk. Their eyes met for several moments before Jerome turned around to speak to Manu.

Irritation flickered in the pit of Lewy’s stomach like a solar flare. He didn’t appreciate being monitored.

* * *

After that, change came slowly and with time, like treacle dripping down an hourglass.

The first change was in Lewy. The reading slowed down in certain parts of his day, and it almost stopped in others. He got better at controlling himself at work but it was harder to refrain when outside, where there was no prospect of Jerome lurking somewhere nearby. He couldn’t bring himself to stop completely, but he tried not to pry into every single mind that came his way.

There were moments when he returned to the things Jerome had said to him, to Jerome’s anger and his fierce declaration that he never read anyone’s mind at all. Thinking about that conversation stirred something unpleasant in Lewy, a dormant guilt that he was normally very good at ignoring. He fought it down like he always did, and focused on making enough amends to defuse Jerome, but being carefree was harder than it used to be.

The second change, when it came, was in Jerome. Jerome didn’t mellow towards him as much as he seemed to stop caring, his hostility calming to irritation before finally becoming indifference. Jerome began leaving him in peace, ignoring him where beforehand, he would have found a way to infuse the silence between them with tension. Lewy wasn’t sure it was a good thing, exactly, but it wasn’t a bad thing either. Lewy was willing to take whatever he could get where Jerome was concerned.

The third change was in them both. Slowly, they began talking.

Lewy walked down to breakfast one morning and realized with a heavy heart that the only other people in the dining room were Basti and Jerome. They were sitting together at one of the tables, and out of politeness, he knew he had to go sit with them.

He made his way to their table and offered a tired “good morning”. Basti replied in like and smiled with his sunny morning energy – but to Lewy’s surprise, Jerome looked up too, and met his eyes briefly.

“Morning.” He replied.

Then he looked back down at his paper, like exchanging pleasantries was something they ordinarily did.

Lewy stared at him for several moments before it occurred to him that he should probably go and get his breakfast. He excused himself and mused over how bad things must have been between them if a ‘good morning’ was enough to raise Basti’s eyebrows to his hairline.

But _hey_ , he thought to himself. _At least he replied_. That bridge hadn’t been there the day before.

When he eventually returned to the table, Basti met his eyes curiously but Lewy ignored him, picking up one of the discarded newspapers instead. He ate his eggs and bacon in silence and pretended like nothing had happened, and nobody said anything further about the subject.

Jerome excused himself first, and after he left, Basti turned his undivided attention to Lewy.

“What was that?” He asked.

“What was what?”

“You two, just then. With the normal conversation and the absence of murderous intent.” He explained, before biting into a croissant. When Lewy gave him a reproachful look, Basti raised a hand to stop him. “No, hang on, it’s good. I’m being encouraging. Philipp will be pleased.”

“Who’s telling Philipp?”

“I am.”

“Is that … necessary?”

Basti nodded, slathering a generous hunk of butter on his pastry as he did so. “It is. He has the whole team keeping tabs on the both of you.”

“… you’re kidding.”

“Unfortunately not. But not forever - only till he figures out how to be in all places at all times. For now, he has the rest of us doing his dirty work.”

“How involved of him.” Lewy said, stunned.

“That’s our Philipp.” Basti smiled wryly. ”Very involved. Shame you had to find out the hard way.”

* * *

 It might have only been a “good morning”, but it broke the ice between them, and it made the next exchange a little easier.

The following morning, Lewy passed Jerome in the hallway and managed a good morning without needing anyone else to be around as a buffer. Jerome returned the greeting with all the warmth of a blizzard, but he returned it nonetheless. This continued for several mornings till maybe a week later, when Jerome was the one to offer the greeting first. Lewy notched it up as a success but kept a straight face, and acted like nothing had happened.

The conversations came slowly after that, stiff and ceremonial though they were. They ended up next to each other on the bus sometimes, and Lewy began throwing in casual remarks about things like the weather and the news. Then, slowly, they started talking about upcoming games and what they were each doing the following weekend. The topics were harmless – boring, even – and the conversations were as brief as they were formal, but Lewy navigated through them like he was handling a particularly delicate vase.

But he found himself thinking that at the very least, they were happening. The sense of dread he used to feel whenever Jerome walked into a room hadn’t quite disappeared, but it was no longer the first thing on his mind when he walked in to training each morning.

* * *

They were in Paris for a Champion’s League away fixture, and Lewy had been to the hotel where they were staying at once before with Dortmund. It was one of his favourites because unlike most of their hotels, this place was further away from the city centre. There were fewer people around, fewer skyscrapers, fewer signs of life. The restaurant on the bottom floor overlooked an expansive green – large enough to host an impromptu training session if Pep wanted it. No doubt that was the reason it had been chosen.

Lewy sat outside on one of the benches, cradling a takeaway cup of tea that he had ordered from the hotel’s restaurant. He had almost gotten away with ordering a coffee, but Philipp had been nearby and overheard, and given him a warning look. _No coffee the night before a game_. The poor server was left to interpret Lewy’s order for a “trim mocha-momile tea”.

And Lewy fucking hated chamomile tea. It tasted like watery grass and Lewy marvelled that people would voluntarily drink the stuff. But it was a warm drink on a cold night, so he sipped at it anyway.

He sat outside because at least it was quiet here. He was rooming with Mario, who was polite enough to listen to his music through headphones, but the volume was so loud that Lewy could hear the tinny, muffled melody anyway. Noise came in from the corridor as well. Thomas and Basti and Arjen were all in rooms nearby, and they and everyone with them tried to quell the simmering energy of the night before a game. It was a noisy process.

Lewy thought about tomorrow’s match, and then about the briefing that Pep had given them that afternoon. He thought about the near-religious emphasis that Pep had put on playing a defensive game, and then he thought about defenders, and then, like he seemed to do most days, he found himself thinking about Jerome.

Lewy shook his head, like doing so would shake the thoughts away. It did for a few moments, till the very voice he was trying to think away sounded out from behind him.

“Robert.”

Lewy turned around and saw Jerome. He walked over and took a seat next to Lewy, who sat a little more stiffly at the unexpected company.

“Hey.” Lewy said.

“Pep’s looking for you.”

“Why didn’t he just call?”

“He tried.”

Lewy’s hands flew into the pockets of his track-pants. When he realised that his phone wasn’t in either one, he frowned and began patting down the other pockets in his jacket.

“Shit. I thought I had – “

“The phone’s in your room. Mario answered it after the seventh ring.”

“Seven calls?” Lewy asked, his gut dropping. “What does Pep want?”

“Beats me,” Jerome shrugged, “but he said it isn’t urgent. He wants you to find him sometime before you go to bed, though.”

Lewy, however, still wasn’t placated. “He calls me seven times, and you want me to believe that it isn’t urgent?”

“He called you seven times because you weren’t picking up. He was more worried about the fact that no one could find you.” Jerome answered. He stretched out lazily and then pulled his scarf a little more tightly around his neck. “What the hell are you doing out here, anyway? It’s cold.”

Lewy found himself thinking that he could ask Jerome the same thing, but he didn’t. This was the longest, most ordinary conversation that they had had to date. He wasn’t about to ruin it.

“Nothing. Just thinking.”

“Your own thoughts, or someone else’s?”

Lewy tensed and he looked at Jerome reproachfully. After all – he had been good, hadn’t he?

At his response, Jerome made a face that almost resembled a smile. It wasn’t quite there yet – his lips only turned up very slightly at the corners, and there was still something reserved in his eyes – but it was something

“Jesus. I’m kidding. Calm down.”

A long pause then passed between them, and Jerome’s expression eventually flattened into something more serious.

“Can I –-“ He began.

And then he stopped, and Lewy thought that this was unlike him. Jerome wasn't the type to think twice about what he wanted to say. But now there was an uncertainty in his tone as well, a kind that Lewy had never heard before.

The longer Jerome remained quiet, the more Lewy’s pulse quickened. It had been two months since their fight in the lockers, and one month since they had made a sort-of peace over breakfasts and formal good mornings. He had been good, too – so good, keeping his distance and leaving people’s thoughts to themselves. He wondered whether the universe was about to reward him for his patience.

As it turned out, it was.

“I want to ask you something.” Jerome said quietly, finally completing the question. “About –- the thing.”

Lewy nodded, but he policed all the curiosity out of his tone.

“Sure.”

They fell quiet again, for what seemed like a long time. Lewy wondered whether Jerome was having second thoughts about bringing it up, but he didn’t say anything to urge him on. If Jerome was indeed offering him some sort of olive branch – and Lewy couldn’t yet be sure that he was – Lewy didn’t want to snap it in the process of reaching out for it.

“Okay.” Jerome began quietly. “Tell me exactly what it is that you can do.”

Lewy twisted the paper cup in his hand around in its heat sleeve. It was only just warm.

“Okay. Well. I can read what someone’s thinking at a given moment. And I can look behind those thoughts too – see into other things they’ve been thinking about. I don’t know.”

“How do you mean?”

“I thought you could do it too?”

“I can. I want to see if we do it the same way.”

“The only thing I can compare it to is like … I don’t know … being in a room.” Lewy reflected. “The thoughts a person is thinking at a given moment are the big things – the stuff you’re able to identify the easiest, like the furniture in the middle of the room. But there are other thoughts too. Things that are still around but which don’t have their immediate attention. They tend to lurk in the background till you focus on them.”

Jerome nodded thoughtfully, but his expression divulged nothing. He said “okay” and left Lewy to wonder whether that meant _I hear you_ or _me too_.

“Have you figured out how it happens?” Jerome asked.

“No, I never have. I think about it a lot, though. All I have to do is focus on the person, and then I can do it. It helps if I’m looking directly them, but even if I’m not, I can probably still read their mind. They need to be around me though, in the same room or the same space. I can’t read through a wall, for example. So the decision to do it is conscious, but how it happens isn’t. Does that make sense?”

“Yeah, it does.” Jerome replied pensively. “Is that it, though? Can you do anything else?”

Lewy turned to look at him, and studied him for a long moment. Jerome wouldn’t quite meet his eye.

“No, I can’t. Can you?”

“No.”

But there was just enough of a delay, just enough of a forced casualness in his voice, to make Lewy think that the _no_ was untruthful. Lewy didn’t press any further. He wasn’t in any position to do so yet.

“Have you ever met anyone else who can do this? What we can do?” Jerome asked.

Lewy shook his head and thought back to that first encounter at the lockers. “No, I thought I was the only one. Finding out that you could do it too was enough of a shock.”

“Should I ask whether it was a good shock or a bad shock, or do I have my answer already?”

Lewy shifted uncomfortably in his seat and took another sip of the god-awful tea. “I don’t know, it wasn’t the best of circumstances. Which, granted, was my fault.”

“Why did you do it, then?”

“What?”

“Read my mind that time.”

“I don’t know.” Lewy said, fighting back a grimace. He figured they would have to have this conversation at some point. That didn’t make the prospect any more palatable.

“No, seriously.”

“I am being serious. I can’t give you a good reason. I did it because I could, and I shouldn’t have.”

“So that was it? You were bored?”

Lewy wished that he could give Jerome a better reason than his raging sense of curiosity.

“Yes, and no.” Lewy began. “I don’t know. You kept to yourself and we never talked and I couldn’t figure out why. And on the pitch that day you were just there, and I thought - well, no. I didn’t think. I just did. And then you stopped me.”

Jerome looked back out at the grounds. He had the keycard to his room in his hands, and twisted it around between his index and middle fingers.

“The reason I didn’t talk to you when you arrived was because of what you were doing.”

“If it bothered you, then you should have said something.”

“I couldn’t think of a way to bring it up.” Jerome explained, and then he turned to look back at Lewy, his expression a little more forgiving. “I’ve noticed that you stopped, by the way. No more ripples. I didn’t think you would.”

And it wasn’t like Lewy was waiting for a round of applause or anything, but he was glad that his effort had been noted.

Of course, he had only really stopped reading at work, and even then, he still sometimes slipped back into the habit accidentally. But Jerome didn’t need to know any of that.

“Is this why we’re on speaking terms now?” Lewy said.

“I guess.”

“Because you seemed pretty forceful when you said we’d never speak about this again.”

“Yeah, well.” Jerome shrugged. “That was back when I still thought you were a complete jackass.”

Lewy pursed his lips. He guessed that Jerome had since changed his mind, but the compliment was too back-handed for him to do anything other than nod.

Before he could think of a reply, the door to the outside area opened behind them. They turned around in time to see Philipp step out, brows knotted as he looked at the two of them.

“Everything okay out here?” He asked.

“We’re fine, Philipp.” Lewy answered.

He studied them testily anyway, trying to verify Lewy’s reply for himself. He remained unconvinced.

“So what, I’m supposed to believe that you two are friends now?”

“If we say yes, will you leave us alone?” Jerome asked.

“I won’t believe you. I might go back inside though.”

“Then yes. Go back inside.” Jerome said, with a small, side-eyed smile at Lewy. “We’re friends.”


	3. slippin' in my faith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It started with a small spark.
> 
> [In which bridges are built, crossed, and Lewy is a bad influence.]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello hello!
> 
> 1\. 8,000 words later, idek.  
> 2\. I'm gonna need y'all to pretend that Bayern Munich met Paris Saint-Germain in the quarter-finals, and that they're going to meet Chelsea in the semi-finals. Much obliged for your suspension of disbelief <3  
> 3\. The fourth chapter will be the final chapter. I swear it on my mother's head. I'm in the middle of writing it. It should be done within two weeks!
> 
> I hope you enjoy this <3

They played the first quarter-final fixture against Paris at home, but they lost it in the twelfth minute. Arjen was red-carded for losing his temper with the referee, and they never recovered after that.  With only ten men on the pitch, Paris spun them like sugar and beat them 2-1 in 94 gruelling minutes. Lewy had struck the goal for Bayern in the 87th minute, but even though it put them on the scoresheet and saved them a bit of face, it consoled no one.

When, a few weeks later, they stepped onto the manicured grass at the Parc des Princes, they faced a task that seemed surmountable, but only just. Pep told them and they told themselves that they had no option but to win, but after 75 minutes, the score remained locked at 1-1, and every Bayern shirt on the pitch was beginning to lost its temper. By chance rather than by precision, an 83rd minute header from Basti won them back their confidence. An 89th minute goal from Lewy won them the game.

The team was uncontainable after the final whistle, their joy only a thin veneer for their relief, and Pep asked the hotel to close its bar to the public and other patrons so they could celebrate under his supervision. In a distinctly uncharacteristic move – one that maybe indicated how close things had been during the game – Pep said that he’d turn a blind eye to one glass of beer each after they had eaten dinner.

At the bar, Basti half-heartedly complained to anyone who would listen that they’d need five glasses each to get drunk off French beer. Philipp threatened to demote Basti from the vice-captaincy. Dante took control of the music, and for the first time in a long time, every single one of them relaxed. They settled in for a contained celebration and a good night.

Exhaustion got the better of Pep before it did the others and he went to bed early, leaving Philipp and Basti in charge. The festivities became a little more rambunctious in his absence, at Basti’s behest and despite Philipp’s half-hearted efforts at control. Pep would probably have them all skinned the next morning when he saw the state of some of them, but the general consensus was that they had won, that they didn’t care, that the media wouldn’t find out anyway, and that they’d deal with Pep in the morning.

Thomas was particularly drunk. He had finished his drink, weaselled half of Juan Bernat’s, sweet-talked the barman into pouring him a second, and then a third. Lewy watched his antics from one of the bar’s window seats. The curtains were shut behind him, and he was happy enough to get his kicks out of watching everyone else celebrate. He had only taken a few sips of his beer, and it wasn’t particularly good, but his mind was still on his goal and he was buzzing.

Like the day before, Jerome turned up next to him unannounced and sat down, an unopened bottle of Saint-Omer still in his hand. He clapped Lewy on the shoulder, presumably by way of congratulations for his strike. Lewy gave him a small smile in response before turning back to the crowd.

“Will he be okay?” Lewy asked, nodding in the direction of Thomas, who presently had an arm around Holger’s shoulder and was shouting a conversation into his unfortunate ear. The music was loud, but it wasn’t _that_ loud – although Thomas was very, very drunk.

“He’ll turn up to breakfast tomorrow like he never had a drop, just watch. Don’t worry about him.”

Lewy looked from Thomas to Jerome. “How? He has zero body fat.”

“The first rule of Bayern Munich is that you do not try to make sense of Thomas Muller. At all. For your sanity. The second rule of Bayern Munich is the same.”

Lewy shook his head in amusement and leaned back against the curtains. The two of them fell quiet and observed the scenes unfolding around them. Basti was dancing, or at least moving his body around in a way presumably intended to be in time with the music. David was dancing next to him, and Lewy couldn’t work out whether David was really good or whether Basti was just _that_ bad. Mario was curled up on one of the couches, arms around a thick cushion and three winks away from sleep, and Arjen and Xabi were across the room in a spirited conversation.

Eventually Jerome leaned closer to Lewy, and spoke directly into his ear, even though it was unlikely anyone else would hear them from this distance, and even though nobody paid them any mind.

It was a peculiar act, oddly intimate when there were two dozen other people in the room. Lewy figured that whatever Jerome wanted to say, it was meant for his ears only, and if it was for his ears only, then it was likely to be about only one thing. His pulse quickened.

“I’ve always wondered,” Jerome said carefully, “what goes on in that mind of his.”

“Do you.”

“I do.”

“So much for the first two rules of Bayern Munich.” Lewy replied drily. “And besides. I thought mind-reading was beneath you.”

“It is. Doesn’t stop me from thinking about it from time to time, though.”

“Is this your underhand way of asking me whether I’ve read his mind?”

Jerome half-smiled and raised his unopened bottle to Lewy in a mocking toast. “That’s exactly what I’m asking.”

“Then yes, I have read his mind.” Lewy answered, before taking a long drag of his drink. “But you knew that already.”

Jerome didn’t respond immediately, A peculiar kind of silence passed between them – not comfortable by any means, but not unpleasant by any means either, and certainly without any of the previous heaviness that used to define the quiet between them. Mostly, Lewy was still getting used to the fact that Jerome wanted to talk to him.

“What does he think about?” Jerome eventually asked.

“You mean you want to know?” Lewy asked, and _god_ , he knew he should probably keep the smug accusation out of his voice, but it was almost impossible after all the shit that Jerome had given him. “I see. So the sanctity of a person’s mind is negotiable when someone else is doing the reading. Fascinating.”

Lewy turned to look at Jerome in time to catch the half-annoyed, half- _I_ - _can’t_ - _be_ - _bothered_ - _with_ - _you_ look that he was being given – but there was still a hint of a smile in Jerome's expression. Maybe he was still buoyed by the game. A victory did strange things to a person, and a close victory even more so.

“Just answer the question.” Jerome said, busying himself with opening his bottle.

Lewy contemplated his answer for a few moments. He had spent less time in Thomas’ mind than the rest of them, but ‘less time’ by his measure still amounted to a lot. He thought about what he had seen – the idle thoughts, the daydreams, the fears (and Thomas had them, as much as he kept them to himself) – and he wondered which ones he should share.

“The nice thing about Thomas,” he began slowly, choosing his words carefully, “is that for the most part, there aren’t any surprises. He’s like he is on the outside – loud and all over he place, but more clever than anyone gives him credit for. Plus horses.”

“Huh. Really.”

“You sound disappointed.”

“I expected something more interesting than that.”

Lewy gave a curt, humourless _ha_. “That is interesting.”

“Is it?”

“Of course it is.”

“You sound jaded.”

“I am. When you – “

“BOATENG. LEWANDOWSKI.” Basti howled across the room, slicing into the middle of their conversation – and everyone else’s – like a hot knife through butter. He wiggled a finger in their direction. ”Come. Dance. I’m summoning you.”

“No.” Jerome called back. “You’re tipsy.”

“Captain’s orders.” He boomed.

“ _Vice_ -captain.” Philipp observed, and loudly. “And not for much longer if you keep this up.”

Lewy and Jerome exchanged a look but left the conversation there. Lewy figured that they weren’t done just yet.

* * *

Lewy went down to breakfast early the next day, as soon as the breakfast buffet opened, and he wasn’t surprised to find that he was the first one there. He didn’t feel great, exhausted as he was from the match rather than the celebrations that followed it, but he was ready to bet that he’d be feeling better than most of the team.

He cobbled together a small tower of eggs and bacon, grabbed two newspapers, and sat down at one of the small tables by the window with a view of the hotel’s green. He began to eat and settled into his favourite post-victory routine – reading glowing match reports.

He was interrupted a few minutes later, when a set of keys and a cell-phone clanged unceremoniously down on the seat opposite his. When he looked up, he found himself looking at Jerome. He smelled like mint and extra-fragrant shower gel, but his eyes suggested that he still had some waking up to do.

“Mind if I join you?” Jerome asked.

“Go ahead.”

Jerome nodded and went to get his breakfast, stretching out to crick his shoulders as he did so. Lewy watched him go and thought back to the months he had spent trying to get Jerome to even look at him without murderous intent. Maybe Jerome was less difficult to break than he had expected.

Jerome eventually returned with a cup of light, milky coffee and a plate piled with toast, but he put the food down in front of him and didn’t get to it immediately.

“What were you going to say last night?”

“Sorry?”

“Before Basti cut you off.”

Reflexively, Lewy surveyed the room to make sure no one was within earshot. Although wait-staff were scattered around the large, brightly-lit room, none of them was close enough to overhear anything.

He turned back to Jerome, who took the first sip of his coffee and eyed Lewy curiously over the top of his mug.

“You always do that, you know? Even when no one’s around.” Jerome observed. “Anyway. Tell me why you’re jaded.”

Lewy stirred his own coffee idly and wondered how to put it. The fact that Jerome was asking was a testament to how little he used his ability. The fact that Lewy had an answer for him was a testament to how frequently he used his own.

“If you read at all, you’d know.” He told Jerome. “But you clearly don’t.”

Jerome peeled the foil off his single serving of butter and dipped a knife into it.

“Well, seeing as you’ve already done the dirty work, you might as well go ahead and tell me what you know.”

Lewy almost smiled. “Your sense of morality is a lot more negotiable than I thought it would be.”

Jerome shook his head as he buttered his toast and took a bite. Between mouthfuls, he said, “Oh no. I’m not taking lectures on morality from _you_. Answer the question.”

Lewy thought for a few moments before responding. There was a short answer and a slightly long answer. They had time to kill before everyone else arrived, so he opted for the latter.

“I had a friend at high school. A good guy, kept his head down, wasn’t top of the class, wasn’t the fastest runner or anything – middle of the table in every respect, but you couldn’t meet a nicer guy, y’know? Always happy, always kind, and I always thought we were really close. Anyway, long story short, I decided to read his mind one day – don’t look at me like that, I was fourteen – and you asked – and inside he was just … _miserable_.”

“How?”

“When I was younger, I used to catch the train to school and back and I used to read people’s minds so that I wouldn’t get bored. Most of the time it was just all these miserable adults, worrying about their lives. He had that same kind of sadness in him, but talking to him face to face – and I did, every day – you would never have known it. And up to that point, I had always known that people kept things to themselves – but I was _close_ to this guy. We talked and I told him things and I had no idea. I guess it just shook me. So when I meet people like Thomas, who don’t hide things, who just are what they are – it’s nice.”

Jerome nodded thoughtfully, drizzling honey over his second piece of toast.

“You don’t need to read minds to know that people aren’t who they make themselves out to be.”

“Yeah, I know that. But when you read their minds, and you understand what that means in real terms – it’s different. You see the kinds of things that people hide to put on a brave face in the morning. It stays with you.”

“Not enough to put you off reading, though.” Jerome observed.

“No. If anything, it made me want to read more.”

“So that’s why you read everyone?”

“Yeah. Curiosity.”

“Sounds like trust issues, if you ask me.”

Lewy stared at him blankly and didn’t respond, and for once, Jerome was the one that had to look away sheepishly.

“I didn’t ask you.” Lewy bristled. He didn’t tell Jerome that maybe he was right.

* * *

They started talking regularly after that, each little sliver of information pulling out another from each of them. It was difficult not to share, to compare notes and experiences, to bask in the strange novelty of having someone to talk to. After months of heavy silence, they suddenly had a lot to say to each other.

Jerome was initially slow to share, but Lewy was happy enough to tell him things first.  

Lewy told him about how his mother explained things away by thinking he was just a hyper-perceptive child. She presumed he was just sensitive to the sadness or anger of others, even when their body language didn’t give them away. He told Jerome how his teachers marvelled at his ability to sit down and play or colour in while in complete silence, not knowing that he was peering into the minds of everyone around him. Lewy was around eight when he appreciated that maybe he could do something that other people couldn’t.

He told Jerome how in his early teens, his grades began to suffer because all he could do was read, how his tendency for silence became mistaken for a bad habit of zoning out. He told him about a memorable Sunday afternoon when he was thirteen, where his mother and his grandmother sat him down and told him that enough was enough, that he had to pull himself together, the message alternately conveyed by reasoning and shouting. That afternoon, he realized that he couldn’t spend the rest of his life listening to the lives of other people instead of living his own.

Lewy spoke about learning to control when to use his ability, about forcing himself to sit in the large park near his house, daring himself not to read the minds of the people around him and failing for months before finally succeeding once. He never quite managed to unlearn the reflex, but he could put a stop to it for a while when he needed to concentrate on something else.

He told Jerome about how learning to control it in that small way didn’t stop him from doing it anyway, and how he listened to people on trains and planes and in school. He became used to knowing everything about people without having to give forth a single part of himself.  He told Jerome about the batshit daydreams that he had encountered, and how they always seemed to come from the most unassuming people.

Jerome eventually began sharing things with him too, in small drips.

Slowly, Jerome told him that his ability was a little different. He didn’t have to read because he just _heard_ anyway, without asking to. He figured out as a child that there was something that other people called “quiet” that he didn’t quite seem to understand. The thoughts of other people around him resonated like quiet voices murmuring in the air, like the background noise in a café, and if he focused on one, he could hear it like a voice in his ear.

As a child, he sometimes heard things that he liked, and sometimes he heard things that scared him, but mostly he heard a lot of things he didn’t understand. Jerome felt that he had grown up too quickly. It made him an insular, serious child, avoidant of company because he didn’t know how to switch it off, so he avoided people instead. The only thing that he enjoyed enough to distract him was football. He rarely left the house for anything other than that and school.

He had tried telling his older brother, who didn’t believe him, and his parents, who tried to understand but dismissed his complaint as an overactive imagination, because if people didn’t want to believe something, they simply wouldn’t. Like Lewy, Jerome eventually decided that he had to learn to control his ability himself. He started off by spending time in quiet places like the library, where there were enough thoughts in the air for him to practice, but not enough to overwhelm him.

He would sit and try to focus and shut out everything. He threw everything into the work in front of him and achieved incredible grades as an unintended consequence, and eventually he learned how to shut everything out. He told Lewy that rarely and to this day, around some people, it was still difficult to control. The thoughts of certain people were so loud, so raging, that they ended up in his ears anyway.

Jerome told Lewy that he hated what he could do, that he woke up every day wishing for nothing about silence. He didn’t like knowing everything. If someone was happy, he couldn’t celebrate with them and if they were sad, he couldn’t let them know that he knew. The knowledge was a burden, and curiosity barely factored in the equation.

They more they talked, the more they realized that they had taken to their abilities in diametrically opposing ways. For Lewy, it was a tool, and he had nurtured it like a flower. For Jerome, it was a weed, and he had contained it and let it fester within him. Lewy wanted to know every conceivable thing about every person that he met, and Jerome would have been happy not knowing anything about anyone, ever again.

But despite their differences, they talked and they couldn’t stop because finally, there was someone around who offered more than a sympathetic ear. Finally, there was someone around who _understood_.

* * *

They talked about it again one Sunday night. It had been a chilly day and the sky seemed to darken far too early, and David and Mario and Lewy had ended up at Jerome’s place playing FIFA. After five hours, David and Mario had left, the first citing tiredness and the second citing Lewy’s questionable FIFA tactics. Lewy contemplated leaving after they did, but Jerome had picked up the controller and challenged him to another game, so he stayed. He figured that if Jerome wanted him to leave, he would make it clear enough.

Jerome had a nice place, too. Lewy had been in Munich for several months but the team had spent so much time away that his home still felt impersonal, like a hotel room. It was new, and clean, and that was precisely the problem with it – he hadn’t spent enough time there to make it his own. Jerome’s home, on the other hand, bore all the imprints of his personality. It was all dark wooden furniture and a surprising amount of art – none of which matched, a mess of colours and styles, but which inexplicably seemed to work as a collection. Whatever wall space remained was adorned with photos in bold frames – of his games, his teams, but mostly his family. The space was cluttered, in a tidy sort of way, but it was cosy.

And if Lewy was being entirely truthful with himself, he didn’t mind the company so much either.

For a while, they played in comfortable silence, the quiet occasionally punctured by an exclamation or profanity. After their third game while alone, Jerome asked him a question.

“So. You never feel guilty?”

It took Lewy a few moments to realize that Jerome wasn’t talking about the game. When he clicked, he answered truthfully but didn’t take his eyes off the screen.

“No, I don’t feel guilty.”

A few moments after he answered, Lewy slotted in a goal past Jerome from a corner kick. Jerome crinkled his nose in displeasure.

“Seriously?” He asked. “Never?”

“Well.” Lewy said, restarting play. ”Sometimes. Only since you’ve been around.”

“I don’t understand that.” Jerome observed. “Or you.”

“It’s not like I’m not taking anything.”

“That’s beside the point.”

“Enlighten me, then.”

The conversation felt peculiar somehow, a little more stilted and tense than the lengthy ones that they had been having recently.

Lewy figured that they would need to have this conversation – the Big Ethical Debate – at some point, but he hadn’t expected it to happen over a FIFA marathon, with shitty electronic music pounding on an aimless loop in the background. It seemed inappropriate somehow, but maybe it was best that they couldn’t look directly at each other.

“It’s not about what you take.” Jerome said. “The problem is you being there in the first place. It’s like - say you break into someone’s house, and all you do is sit on their couch and stare at the photos on their fireplace. You haven’t taken anything but you’re still breaking and entering. It’s still wrong.”

“That’s completely different.” Lewy replied, shaking his head.

“It’s exactly the same thing. If they found out what you were doing, you wouldn’t last five minutes.”

“Except they’ll never know. So your point is moot.” Lewy said, slipping past Jerome’s goalie again. Jerome was playing with Bayern, and Lewy was playing with Dortmund, and Manuel Neuer was having the worst night of his career. “Anyway, enough of me fielding your questions. You explain something to me. You never get curious?”

“Of course I do. Sometimes. But it’s none of my business. Or yours.”

“What if reading comes in handy? Say someone needs help but they can’t ask for it.”

“And in 26 years, how many people have you helped?” Jerome asked. Lewy shifted uncomfortably in his seat instead of answering, and Jerome let the silence drag on for an uncomfortable period of time before saying, “I thought not. If people want help, they ask for it.”

“They don’t. That the problem.”

“Then that’s their choice too. It’s not your role to override it.”

Lewy kept quiet. He saw the logic in Jerome’s arguments, but he wasn’t used to living by them, and more importantly, he wasn’t sure that he wanted to either. He felt like there was still something to be said for his own approach, but he couldn’t articulate it in a way that would make sense to Jerome. He decided to keep his mouth shut for now, and resolved to think about it later.

After a seventh straight loss at Lewy’s hands, Jerome tossed his controller loosely on the cushion next to him. He sighed and leaned back into his seat. Lewy took that as a sign that they were taking a small break, and left his own controller on the coffee table in front of him. He spoke after a few moments.

“I get a twinge of guilt sometimes.” Lewy admitted. “Not often, but it happens. I try not to think about it when it does.”

Jerome regarded him earnestly, his brows creased in a frown of inquiry rather than disappointment. “I just don’t understand how you can distract yourself from something like that.”

“Usually? I find a new mind to read.”

Jerome scoffed and shook his head, looking up at the ceiling like it would give him patience. “I can’t say much for you, Lewy, but at least you’re honest.”

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say that was a compliment.”

“It is. Don’t get used to it though.” Jerome said, pausing for a few moments before adding. “But this isn’t bad. For the record.”

“You’re on a seven match losing streak. This is pretty bad.”

“Not the game. I meant _this_.” Jerome said distractedly, making vague gestures in the air with his hand that did nothing to clarify his point.  He didn’t look Lewy in the eye, his gaze elsewhere. “Talking about it, I mean. It’s not bad.”

“Oh. Sure.” Lewy replied, even though a suspicious warmth spread across his chest. “I guess it isn’t bad.”

And even though Jerome had only just complimented him on his honesty, Lewy didn’t feel right admitting how much he was enjoying these conversations too.

* * *

At first, Lewy told himself that they talked because there was no one else to talk to. After a while, he acknowledged that maybe they were enjoying each other’s company as well.

They roomed together for the first time during an away game at Hamburg. On the morning of the game, the team ate breakfast and then Pep had made them take a very light training afterwards. The game wouldn’t be till late that night, so they were each allowed to kill time in their respective rooms. Lewy read the newspaper and Jerome listened to music on his bed, his head swallowed by a gigantic pair of headphones. His hands were folded behind his head and his eyes were closed, and if it weren’t for the barely perceptible rise and fall of his chest, Lewy would have thought to check his pulse.

After a while, Lewy noticed Jerome taking off his headphones and putting them on his nightstand. He sat up and rubbed his eyes like he had woken up from sleep. Lewy could tell from his peripheral vision that Jerome was looking at him.

“Let me ask you something.” Jerome began. “Let’s say you had the chance to read the mind of anyone at all.”

Lewy didn’t look up from his paper and flipped the page instead, looking for the crossword. “For someone who prides himself on not reading minds, you’re more obsessed with it than I am, you know that?”

“Dead or alive,” Jerome continued, ignoring him, “human or not, real or fictional.”

“I don’t know. Obama.”

“Obama.” Jerome said, frowning in confusion. “The safest of safe answers. Really.”

“You don’t want to hear the honest answer.”

“I do now.”

“You’re not going to like it.” Lewy warned, locating the crossword on the second to last page. He pulled out the whole page and folded it so that it was the size of the crossword.

“I’m listening anyway.” Jerome said.

Lewy tapped his pen over the chequered squares. He wondered whether his act of pretending to read the clues was convincing at all.

“If I could read anyone’s mind, I’d read yours. I’m not going to,” he added quickly, “but given the chance, and if you weren’t going to find out, I would. Not that I’m going to.” He repeated, for good effect.

It was perhaps a testament to how far things had come between them that Jerome almost smiled at him, instead of scowling.

“I don’t understand what you find so fascinating about my mind.”

“Literally nothing.” Lewy said, uncapping his pen. “It’s more that you won’t let me near it.”

“And here I was, thinking that you developed a moral backbone.”

“I developed self-control. That’s enough personal development for one year.” Lewy pointed out, filling in 4-down [4. Music style, … roll (4,3): _r_ - _o-c_ - _k_ - _a_ - _n_ - _d_ ]. “Give me credit for that, at least.”

“You don’t get credit for arriving at minimum standards of human decency.”

“Fine, Saint Boateng.” Lewy said, turning to the other clues. “Who would you read?”

“No one in particular.” Jerome answered, with a promptness that indicated the answer had been ready, like he had thought about this before. “Maybe I’d go work for the police or something. Read people’s minds, see whether they committed crimes or not. Something like that.”

That was enough for Lewy to look up from his paper. He grimaced at Jerome and rooted around for an insult to fire his way, but something even better presented itself to him – an ideological inconsistency.

“So what you’re saying,” he said slowly, “is that reading someone’s mind is fine any time a person is so much as suspected of committing a crime.”

“Well, yeah. It’s justice.”

“No, that’s a police state.”

“Not if a person committed a crime.”

“But you’re not yet sure that they have.” Lewy pointed out, and there was no keeping the smugness out of his expression now. “You only _suspect_ that they have. It’s a lower threshold. And a weak one. But you’re saying that’s okay.”

“Well – yeah. But - “ Jerome said, hesitating as he grappled with the concept, and as Lewy’s point began to make an annoying amount of sense, he raised his hands. “Wait. Stop. Hold on. You’re not allowed to be right on any of this. I won’t allow it.”

Lewy filled in three answers in a row, and smiled down at the paper as he scribbled each one down. He could get used to proving Jerome wrong.

* * *

“So I was wondering.” Lewy declared over breakfast one morning. They were both up earlier than everyone else, and had arrived at the buffet as soon as it had opened for service. Jerome had opted for porridge, but Lewy watched as he stole a second piece of bacon off Lewy’s plate without asking. In light of what Lewy was about to suggest, he let it slide.

Jerome didn’t bother looking up as he carved into the rasher. “Wonder away.”

“I was wondering what would happen if we tried to read each other’s minds at the same time.”

At that, Jerome looked up, his expression neutral except for his eyes, which had suddenly taken on something of a hawkish look. He didn’t say anything at first.

“I thought we established,” Jerome said slowly, tone measured, “that it’s like getting kicked in the head.”

Lewy watched him cautiously, well aware that he was re-approaching boundaries that he had learned to avoid over the last few months.

“Only if you’re trying to keep me out. Say we do it again, but you don’t.”

Jerome looked at him with slightly narrowed eyes, the kind of look that he hadn’t given Lewy in months. Maybe months ago, it would have been enough to shut Lewy down, or make him think about changing the subject -- but that was months ago, and a lot had changed since then. And Lewy wasn’t sure how strong their nascent friendship was – how far he could push it, how much tension he could introduce before the string snapped – but enough had changed to make him feel willing to take the risk.

The look suggested that if Lewy knew what was best for him, he would shut the fuck up. But Jerome hadn’t said anything to stop him either, and Lewy was happy to read a little bit of curiosity into his silence.

“Just hear me out.” He said, with a lot more confidence than he felt. “You don’t like reading minds because the person whose mind you’re in doesn’t know you’re there, right? So it’s a consent thing for you.”

“Get to the point.”

“That problem doesn’t exist with me. I’m giving you permission to read my mind.”

“I’m not worried about your permission.”

“So what’s the problem, then?”

Jerome regarded him frankly.

“I don’t know if I trust you enough not to rifle around.” He explained flatly. “Sorry. I trust you more than I used to, but I don’t know whether trusting you that much yet is a good idea.” And then, at the end, perhaps as a formality rather than as something he sincerely meant, Jerome tacked on a “No offence.”

And of course Lewy took offence. He took a whole lot of offence. The accusation reminded him that even though they were friends now, a long period of conflict had preceded their friendship. It also reminded him of the inconvenient fact that Jerome’s suspicions had their foundations in truth – in his own behaviour – and he knew better than to deny it even to himself.

“What if I promise to stick to your surface thoughts?”

“I don’t know whether I trust you to do that either.”

“You honestly think I’m dumb enough to risk it?”

Jerome finished off the rest of his rasher, and then stole a third one off Jerome’s plate. It was the last one. Lewy didn’t protest, or even notice.

“If you read anything deeper, I’ll block you out like last time. And then I’ll break your nose. At least.”

“Fair.”

“I’m not fucking around, Lewy. I’m serious.” Jerome said, fixing him with a stern look, the likes of which he hadn’t given Lewy for some months. “I’ll do it. But don’t pry.”

It struck Lewy that he could have told Jerome a few things that might have put him at ease.

He could have told Jerome that he was enjoying his company far too much to do anything that might jeopardize it; that he actually liked coming into work now that they weren’t in a state of conflict; that he was stupid but not stupid enough to jeopardize his friendship with literally the only other person in the world who not only knew his secret but _understood_ it. Lewy could have told him that he was getting used to Monday night FIFA battles at Jerome’s, and arguing with him on the bus, and that he wouldn’t trade Philipp’s constant befuddlement about their friendship for anything.

Lewy could have told him all these things but he didn’t. Instead, he nodded and said firmly, “I know. I won’t. I swear.”

They eventually agreed to do it at Jerome’s one Monday night instead of FIFA. They sat at opposite ends on one of the settees, facing each other. Jerome tried to seem nonchalant, but there was a rigidity in his muscles and posture that gave him away.

“Surface thoughts only.” Jerome reminded him.

“I know. Surface thoughts only.” Lewy repeated. “On my count after three, okay?”

Jerome nodded and cracked the bones in his left hand. He met Lewy’s eye squarely.

“One. Two. Three.”

Lewy breathed, focused – and immediately, pain _seared_ through him again, like his skull was in a compressor and being crushed from all three hundred and sixty degrees. He immediately clutched his head in his hands and reached for a nearby cushion, pressing his face into it. In the end, it didn’t help in the slightest, and the pain only receded when Jerome must have given up.

It took a few moments for the pain to recede enough for Lewy to think, and a few moments longer for his breath and his heart-rate to slow down.

“Sorry. Sorry.” Jerome apologised, rubbing at his temple.

Lewy fought back the nausea, took a few breaths. “It’s fine. Don’t worry.”

“I couldn’t help it.”

“You sure you’re okay to do this?”

“Yeah.” Jerome said. “But let’s do it differently.”

“How?”

“I’ll read your mind first, and then you read mine. Maybe I won’t react that way.”

“Okay.” Lewy said, figuring that it couldn’t hurt. That had been enough stabbing pain in his skull for one night.

Lewy watched Jerome closely as he closed his eyes and centred. Lewy mused on how, unlike most people, Jerome’s face relaxed when he focused. His default expression was something a little hard – a state of mild discontent – but when he focused, the creases in his brow relaxed, his lips eased from their frown, and he looked peaceful.

And then, because it was the first time that Jerome had tried to read in his company, Lewy felt the waves for the first time.

He froze at first because _oh, god, they’re obvious_. They filled the air between him and Jerome with a static that mildly disorientated him for a little while, and he was grateful to be sitting down. It struck him then that this was what Jerome had felt from him all those months, and given how _often_ he used to do it – well. Lewy caught himself and stopped thinking, because Jerome was probably already in there.

But his eyes were closed and he wasn’t reacting, even though he must have known what Lewy was thinking.

In that moment, and maybe for the first time in his life, Lewy appreciated the intrusive nature of what he did. Knowing that someone else was in his head, and that there was nothing he could do to veil his thoughts, was a moment of quiet and sobering revelation. It was perhaps appropriate that Jerome, of all people, was opening his eyes.  

Jerome eventually looked at him and gave a slight nod. Lewy focussed and tried to read his mind – and this time, when he did so, he felt nothing. Nothing doubled him over, there was no momentary blindness, and there was no searing pain. There was only a complete and perfect silence.  Jerome hadn’t tried to resist.

 _Can you read this_? Lewy thought.

 _Yeah_. Jerome answered, somehow, in his head, without uttering a single word. _Shit. I can._

They stared at each other, Jerome incredulous, Lewy bewildered, both of them shaking just a little. They were in each other’s minds, at the same time, and it was a peculiar feeling – like knocking down a wall between two rooms, creating one space but with two distinct halves. Lewy focused on what Jerome wanted him to read but he could feel other thoughts lurking in the background as well, some closer to him than others, but he had made a promise to stay away from them. He intended to keep that promise, and he paid them no mind.

Suddenly, Jerome laughed with all the breathless wonder of a child that had been shown a magic trick. Maybe it was nerves, or the aftershock of surprise at the fact that they were even _doing_ this – but it was infectious. Lewy laughed along with him, equally disbelieving but equally content.

 _We should have done this a while ago_ , Jerome thought.

 _See?_ Lewy thought. _You’re not always right. There are two ways of doing things._

 _Yeah. Two_ ways, Jerome replied, and his smile was unrepentant. My _way, and the wrong way._

* * *

They had been drawn with Chelsea for the semi-finals. The day before the second fixture, Pep gathered them at the hotel for a final motivational speech. They had lost 2-1 at Stamford Bridge, and the tone of his sermon was almost apocalyptic. He spoke about tactics and formations but somehow, without saying as much, he impressed upon them that the world would collapse if they lost the return fixture at home.

Lewy and Jerome sat next to each other, alone and in the fourth and final row of plastic chairs in front of Pep. Lewy’s eyes were on Pep but his mind was elsewhere, on the weekend, on the holiday he was planning for the mid-year break, on the groceries he needed to buy – on anything other than Pep and the match.

He felt Jerome’s foot tap against his own, but dismissed the contact as unintentional. When it happened again, with the tap more of a kick against his shoe, he glanced curiously at Jerome.

Then Lewy felt the waves, and rolled his eyes. When he read Jerome’s mind, he found that Jerome was already in his.

 _When’s Pep supposed to finish_? Jerome asked

 _Technically, twenty minutes ago_.

_Jesus. And he gave the same sermon over breakfast._

_Did he? I wouldn’t know. I haven’t been paying attention all day._

They became so caught up in their silent conversation that they didn’t notice Pep has stopped talking, and was now looking directly at them.

They only noticed when the heads of every person in the three rows in front of them swivelled in their direction. By that point, it was too late, and they were the unfortunate centre of everybody’s attention.

Lewy and Jerome both looked up at Pep but he was already waiting for them, arms folded. His gaze was piercing and severe, and it shifted restlessly from one to the other. He looked distinctly unimpressed, and they each felt like they had been hauled before their father after misbehaving.

“I don’t know what you two find so amusing about tomorrow’s game.” He said quietly, but the room was so silent that each acidic syllable reached them with perfect clarity. “But if you don’t wipe those smiles off your faces and pay attention like professionals, I’m benching you both for tomorrow. Understood?”

They nodded slowly, and they relaxed only when Pep turned back to the whiteboard in front of him and resumed speaking.

 _Now we’re in trouble_. Jerome thought. _Thanks_.

 ** _You_** _tapped **my** foot, asshole_. Lewy replied. _Thank yourself._

Next to him, Jerome placed a hand over his mouth. Mercifully, Pep had become engrossed in the defensive formation he was re-explaining on the whiteboard. He didn’t notice Jerome trying to cover his smile, in flagrant breach of the warning he had given them both only seconds beforehand.

Lewy tried not to smile too, but he was getting good at making Jerome laugh, and he wasn’t sure why that mattered to him but it did. He chose not to dwell on it.

* * *

They went into the second game down 2-1. At halfway, they were still 0-0. In the 80th minute, Xabi served a delicious kick to Jerome, who fired it into the goal.

Lewy barely had enough time to register the ball hitting the spidery netting before suddenly, he felt himself being propelled backwards, the unstoppable force of Jerome’s body falling against his own as Jerome jumped on him. Lewy struggled to remain upright, but he pulled it off somehow. Jerome roared with joy into his ear, into the air over his shoulder, and suddenly, Philipp and then Basti and then David landed on them both.

But none of that registered for Lewy, because all he could think about was that Jerome had _come to him first_.

Jerome jumped off him and went to celebrate in front of the crowd. Lewy watched him go and tried to tell himself that he had probably been the nearest person around.

He shook his head and chalked up his racing heart to the fact that after 80 frustrating minutes, they finally had everything to play for. He didn’t let himself think anything else.

Whatever spell had been holding them back till then seemed to break with Jerome’s goal, and they began laying siege to Chelsea’s goal. Courtois resisted and resisted their efforts until finally, Mario tipped the ball past him in the 93rd minute.

The stadium had been loud since Jerome’s goal, but when Mario’s gentle tap curved the ball into the bottom left corner of the net, sonic booms of relief and elation erupted all around them from all four tribunes. It wasn’t the final but for all the noise, it might as well have been one. Basti fell to his knees with relief, David cradled Juan in disbelief, and Philipp yelled himself hoarse into the stadium air.

Lewy stood in the middle of the pitch, overwhelmed, and when the whistle finally blew, exhaustion sunk onto his shoulders like a heavy blanket. But it was a satisfying kind of exhaustion, the kind that came after hard work and achieved goals, the kind that had been for something instead of nothing.

And all around him, the stadium continued to explode, the noise refusing to slope off even as the minutes since the goal passed. He could hear intermittent chanting from here and there, but mostly there was a wall of indistinguishable, overjoyed sound.

The temptation became too much, and he was weak. Lewy opened his mind and began to read the jubilation of everyone around him. 

Jerome picked up on the waves and looked at him.

Buoyed by joy, Lewy went to him and put his lips to Jerome’s ear, because there was no way he’d hear him otherwise. No one paid them any attention.

“Read.”

“ _What_? No – “

“Just do it.” Lewy interrupted him, with the kind of boldness that would have been inconceivable months ago. “Stop being a saint for one second and just do it, just this once. You’ve never felt anything like this before, Jerome. I swear. Just trust me.”

Jerome stayed silent, regarding Lewy probingly, but Lewy took his lack of a response as a good thing. If Jerome was completely against the idea, he would have said so. Silence meant he was tossing it up.

“Just once. And only once.” Jerome eventually replied, the words coming out slowly, the repetition more for the benefit of his own conscience than Lewy’s. “Who do I --”

“Doesn’t matter. Start with Philipp. Move to Basti. Pick a face in the crowd.  Open up your mind. Do whatever the hell you want. Just do it.” And then, because he had taken an inch, Lewy figured that he might as well take a whole arm. “Mind if I read you while you do it?”

“Whatever. Okay.”

Jerome didn’t look entirely convinced, but he went ahead with it anyway. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes for a few moments. The ecstatic roar of the crowd around them continued, as loud as it had been after the final whistle. Lewy waited for Jerome’s nod, and let himself into Jerome’s mind just as Jerome let himself into those of others. 

Jerome opened up indiscriminately, plucking joyous thoughts from the crowd around them like he was pulling feathers from the open air. Then he looked to Philipp, and then Basti, and then Thomas, and then Pep, and Lewy sensed him shuffle through the joy of everyone around them like he was shuffling through a deck of cards. Jerome stood motionless and speechless as he read, like he was too overwhelmed to move or speak.

Only Lewy could sense the elation coursing through him, as potently as though it was coursing through his own veins. They stood near each other, overpowered by the magnitude of the joy they were leeching off everyone around them. It was the joy of an entire stadium, of tens of thousands of people, magnified upon itself like thousands of mirror images reflecting each other. It seemed immeasurable, infinite, and it was all either of them could do to remain standing as it surged through them.

They remained like that for a long time till eventually, Jerome shut it off. He looked to Lewy and burst out laughing, the breathless laughter of someone trying to remember what it was to breathe, to stand upright, to feel feelings on a normal scale. Lewy smiled back at him.

Jerome walked over, held Lewy’s head in his hands, pressed their foreheads together and didn’t say anything. They didn’t need to speak or read each other. They simply stayed close, reflecting on what they had felt, on what they had done, on this improbable thing they had shared.

Lewy reflected on something else too. _Jerome had come to him first_ , and he thought about what that meant, and what he wanted it to mean. They were two different things.

Jerome put his lips to Lewy’s ear and Lewy willed his heart not to jump. It did anyway.

“Holy _shit_.” Jerome said breathlessly.

Lewy smiled, even though he could tell that an unfortunate realization was hovering nearby, waiting for him to arrive at it.

“All I’m saying,” he told Jerome, “is that you should listen to me more often.”

“Shut the fuck up.” Jerome said, pushing a playful fist into Lewy’s ribs and fighting back a smile. “I’m never listening to you ever again.”

But he pulled Lewy in to him and they held each other, and Lewy arrived at the realization that had been waiting for him.

 _Shit_.

* * *

He fell for Jerome and at first, it was like an illness. The first few symptoms – attention, time, seeking out his company – were all there, but he could easily dismiss them as something benign. He told himself that they were friends, and that this was what friends did. His quickening heartbeat was a little more difficult to dismiss. And then one day, Lewy saw Jerome talking to Thomas and laughing in a way that Lewy had never made him laugh, and there was no denying it anymore. Jealousy detonated in the pit of his stomach. He kept watching and it seeped into his bloodstream, till it had spread to the four corners of his body and stayed there.

After a while, it felt more like a fire that Lewy couldn’t control.

It had started with a small spark, the glow of which was kind of warm and pleasant at first, and it seemed small enough, manageable, easy for him to control. But it grew – and it grew because Lewy didn’t realize how easy it was to feed this thing, how it would feed off the briefest conversation, the slightest gesture, the most inoccuous look.

It grew and Lewy though to himself _this is okay_ , _this is fine_ , _I can still manage this_. He believed it at first but he continued to tell it to himself even when he didn’t, even when the fire was bigger than he was, when it threatened to burn down the tentative friendship he had built between them. After a while, he acknowledged its size, he stopped trying to control it because he knew that he couldn’t anymore, and he focussed on trying to keep it hidden from everyone else, and in particular, from Jerome.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoyed it!
> 
> Kudos, comments, con-crit and cookies are welcomed and appreciated <3


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